


His Guitar

by Drag0n_Fire



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alexis | Quackity Angst, Alexis | Quackity-centric, Gen, Grief/Mourning, mentions of past abusive relationship, this is written about the characters in the roleplay not about any real people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:42:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28674669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0n_Fire/pseuds/Drag0n_Fire
Summary: Despite what everyone has been saying, not much of Wilbur survived the explosion. Sure, he’s technically still here, but Quackity isn’t convinced that the soft spoken, childish ghost is Wilbur. Not really. In fact, Quackity believes that the only part of Wilbur that survived is what he holds in his hands.---Quackity returns Wilbur's guitar.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Wilbur Soot, Quackity & Ghostbur
Comments: 3
Kudos: 118





	His Guitar

**Author's Note:**

> I love Quackity, but I'm not sure if I got his character right. Oh well. I'm also terrified of losing Ghostbur.

Despite what everyone has been saying, not much of Wilbur survived the explosion. Sure, he’s technically still here, but Quackity isn’t convinced that the soft spoken, childish ghost is Wilbur. Not really. In fact, Quackity believes that the only part of Wilbur that survived is what he holds in his hands.

Not the few ruins left of the houses he had helped painstakingly built, not the loyalty to the country that he created that has still somehow stuck with all of its citizens, not his son or his brother or his father, not even the memories of him. No, the only piece of Wilbur left was the well loved guitar clutched in Quackity’s hands.

Quackity lets his fingers run across the smooth wood as he walks. A curled, heavy part of him wants to turn back and hide away with the guitar clutched to his chest. He pushes that part away, the part of him that he tells himself is Schlatt, because he’s not _selfish_. Wilbur isn’t his to keep all to himself.

He sees the yellow sweater before he sees Wil- _Ghostbur_ . That thing- _person_ isn’t Wilbur, but when Quackity looks down at his- _Wilbur’s_ guitar, he tells himself that maybe he can be.

“Hey, Wilbur!” Quackity calls, waving his arm a bit to catch the flighty ghost’s attention.

Wilbur whirls around unnaturally quick and his eyes widen. “Oh! Hello…” His voice trailed off in a way that everyone had realised was the signal that he had forgotten something.

“Big Q,” Quackity supplies, insides buzzing with the want of hearing the nickname roll off of Wilbur’s tongue the way it used to.

“Hello, Big Q!” Wilbur accompanies his greeting with small little waves from both of his hands. Quackity smiles wider to hide the disappointment that fills him. Wilbur does not sound like Wilbur at all. Not yet, he tells himself.

“Do you want to sit down?” Quackity offers, patting the rocks that jut out from the beach.

Wilbur claps his hands together and sits down, _right_ next to Quackity. Quackity notices that his hands don’t make any sound when they slap against each other. Another reminder that he is not really Wilbur.

“What’s that?” Wilbur asks, pointing at the guitar but not daring to touch it.

“It’s his-your guitar.” Quackity’s arms curl around the guitar tightly before he releases, for probably the last time. “I’m giving it back to you.” He holds the guitar out and quickly adds, “Because I’m not selfish.” He needs him to know, needs everyone to know, because the voice in his head he’s named Schlatt is screaming _selfish, you’re so selfish, you just can’t let go of anything, so clingy, you’re a monster_. He needs to prove Schlatt wrong, because he’s not like Schlatt, no matter what the ex-president might be whispering to everyone else.

Wilbur takes the guitar, and Quackity watches with sharp eyes as Blue from his fingers smears onto the polished wood. Familiar fire burns in Quackity. Wilbur’s guitar has been ruined. The only part of Wilbur left has been utterly destroyed and defaced entirely. Every part of Wilbur is ruined now. 

Quackity takes a hissing inhale and pushes down the fire-Schlatt’s fire, because Quackity doesn’t rage about things he doesn’t have any right to. He doesn’t have any right to feel fire in him. The guitar is Wilbur’s. Not Quackity’s. If Wilbur gets Blue on it, then that’s his business. And it _is_ Wilbur holding his own guitar.

Quackity also tells himself that he has no right to get angry that all of Wilbur is ruined when every part of Quackity has also been ruined. _Ruined by yourself_ , Schlatt hisses.

Wilbur hums happily and holds the guitar loosely in his arms. He stares at it in silence for a long, itching few seconds before he pipes up, “I don’t know how to play guitar.”

The fire comes back and rises up Quackity's throat in a storm. “ _Yes you do_ -” He shuts his mouth and presses a hand against it, shutting in the heat. He’s not Schlatt. He doesn’t yell, not in anger. He drags his hand off his face, letting his nails scratch hard against his skin as he does.

Quackity stares into Wilbur’s white eyes, looking for a hint of recognition. “You actually taught me how to play,” he admits. He feels the ghost of steady hands guiding his own onto the strings of the very instrument Wilbur is holding.

“Wonderful! Now play a song!” Wilbur thrusts the guitar back into Quackity’s rigid arms.

“What?” This isn’t what’s supposed to happen. He puts away his frustration. This could jog Wilbur’s memories. “What song?”

Wilbur rocks a little at the question. “Well, I don’t really remember it, but! It goes kinda like this,” His voice dissolves into fractured humming. Quackity’s face scrunches up in concentration as he tries to strum along with Wilbur’s humming. His chest hurts with something rotten as he plays _Wilbur’s_ guitar, as if it is his own.

Wilbur’s humming halts again as he pulls at memories of the melody. Quackity takes that as his chance to hand the guitar back to Wilbur. “Why don’t you try? I don’t know the song.”

Wilbur looks at Quackity for a moment, almost analytical in the way he used to be, and then looks down at the guitar clumsily clutched in his Blue stained hands. He shyly plucks a few strings, muttering a small “pretty” at the notes. He shifts his hands around it, turning to glance at Quackity’s hands a few times, trying to recall how he held it. His thin hands still and he looks back up at Quackity. “I don’t know how to play guitar,” he repeats.

Several storms rush inside of Quackity, and he feels as if his skin is going to snap with the strain of containing them. He wants to scream and yell and hit and punch and kick and destroy-he wants to be Schlatt. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to be Schlatt. He isn’t Schlatt. 

He wants to be Wilbur.

So he breathes in deeply and lets his face relax into a smile. “Okay, Ghostbur.” He moves closer to the ghost. “I can teach you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, I've been forgetting to put this on my writing, but my tumblr is @bee-bumble, if you want to check that out, I guess. idk


End file.
